Chapter 102
The Oscars were fast approaching.
Shi Feiran called to remind Fang Huai to start preparing early. Not everyone had the opportunity to walk the red carpet with legitimacy. Even if he was just a nominee, he still had to take it seriously. Some people had already arrived in Country A.
What Shi Feiran hadn’t expected was that Fang Huai…
“Fell asleep?!”
He found it unbelievable.
It wasn’t an illness—Fang Huai was simply asleep, and no matter how much they called him, he wouldn’t wake up. His nutrition had to be maintained through IV fluids. This condition had already lasted a full week.
As the award date crept closer, Shi Feiran grew more anxious—but there was nothing he could do.
If anyone should be the most worried, it was undoubtedly Ye Yuyuan. And if even Ye Yuyuan had no solution, then Shi Feiran had even less of a chance.
Now, all they could do was wait. Wait for Fang Huai to wake up on his own.
*
When Duan Yang entered the hospital room, Ye Yuyuan was sitting beside Fang Huai, eyes lowered as he reviewed documents. He had moved all his work here so he could stay by Fang Huai’s side.
Their gazes met midair for a moment. Ye Yuyuan set down his tablet and stood up. The AI system in the room automatically adjusted the temperature higher as the two of them stepped out.
“The seventh day,” Duan Yang murmured, gripping his earbuds, glancing toward the room.
Ye Yuyuan gave a quiet “mm” in response.
“He won’t…” Duan Yang hesitated. He won’t stay asleep forever, right?
He considered voicing the thought but held back.
“He won’t.” Ye Yuyuan answered firmly, without hesitation.
Duan Yang nodded.
Neither of them were talkative people. They had known each other for a long time but had barely spoken over the years.
“Do you need help?” Duan Yang ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “With what you’re working on?”
Ye Yuyuan’s plans had yet to be publicly revealed, but many had already guessed.
It seemed that Ptah intended to play a role in an anti-discrimination initiative. Ye Yuyuan was in the process of submitting paperwork, petitioning for a review as a private citizen.
Fang Huai wanted a world like this—so Ye Yuyuan was determined to give it to him.
This road would not be easy.
“Thank you.”
Ye Yuyuan neither confirmed nor denied anything. He took two steps back toward the room, then suddenly stopped.
“I will formally submit the documents in three days. If there are no surprises, the review process will begin in about half a month.”
By then, Ye Yuyuan would have to step into the public eye.
The timing was coincidental—it would be right around the Oscars.
“May your wishes come true,” Duan Yang said.
*
Fang Huai stood beneath a ginkgo tree, watching Lin Shuheng write.
It was an old but well-maintained single-story house. Outside the small study stood a tall and lush ginkgo tree, its branches stretching into the window.
He had been here for a while.
This was the first time he was seeing Lin Shuheng like this—not through the fragments of his blurred memories, but in a vivid, real, and tangible way.
But the people here couldn’t see him. Lin Shuheng couldn’t see him either.
At this time, Lin Shuheng was still young. There were no exaggerated scars on his face or body. But Fang Huai knew that at the age of twenty-two, his face would be disfigured—he would bear a deep scar from his ear to the corner of his mouth. At twenty-four, he would lose hearing in his left ear, and soon after, it would be difficult to find a patch of unmarked skin on his body.
It was summer. The ginkgo leaves had yet to turn yellow. When the wind blew, it cast countless dancing shadows and dappled light.
On a fresh new notebook, Lin Shuheng wrote the first line: “Kid, long time no see. You probably don’t remember me.”
He twirled his pen slightly, looking a little embarrassed, then hesitantly added, “My surname is Lin. My name is Lin Shuheng.”
Just then, a soft, infantile cry broke the silence beside him.
Lin Shuheng immediately put down his pen and stood up, gently lifting the small child from the bed.
The little boy had slightly wavy hair and light amber eyes. He was naturally cheerful—even when crying, he didn’t seem too sorrowful or pitiful.
The door swung open as a scruffy-looking man hurried in, clicking his tongue.
“Hey, crying again? I was only gone for half a minute.”
It was Fang Jianguo.
Fang Huai had seen photos of him in his youth—there was a certain unruly charm to his handsomeness.
Lin Shuheng shot him a reproachful look.
“I was the one who fished him out,” Fang Jianguo continued. “He’ll take my surname. I’ve already decided—he’ll be called Fang Huai.”
“Huai, as in ‘cherishing jade’?” Lin Shuheng paused, asking for clarification.
“No,” Fang Jianguo waved his hand dismissively before giving a wry smile.
“Huai, as in ‘bearing a treasure invites disaster.’”
The child was found in January, the coldest time of the year.
A tiny body submerged in deep water.
Fang Jianguo had initially thought he was retrieving a corpse, but to his surprise, the baby was still breathing.
The little one teetered on the edge of death multiple times. Only when summer arrived did he finally stabilize—his life miraculously pulled back from the brink.
Perhaps that wasn’t the most accurate way to put it.
Fang Jianguo soon realized there was something unusual about this child.
Another summer came and went. Lin Shuheng had gone north to join the war. He wrote a letter asking about Fang Huai—was he well? Should he be starting school soon?
Indeed, the neighbor’s boy, born around the same time as Fang Huai, had already been enrolled in private tutoring, with his family sending gifts to the teacher.
But Fang Huai still looked like a three- or four-year-old—small, short, and slow to react. He could sit and stare blankly at the stream for an entire day.
That winter, Fang Jianguo took Fang Huai to visit an old friend.
The friend lived in a remote mountain area in very simple conditions. When they arrived, the old friend, whom Fang Jianguo hadn’t seen in years, was already waiting for them at the mountain entrance, holding a string of Buddhist prayer beads.
“He doesn’t really count as human.”
That night, after dinner, the old friend only spoke after sending Fang Huai off to play with the dogs.
“I’ve never encountered something like this before…”
The world has its own spirit.
When a person is born, they more or less receive some kind of expectation, affection, or acknowledgment from the world around them. No matter what, there is always some response.
But Fang Huai had none.
One of his parents wasn’t human, but that wasn’t the main issue. The real problem was that when the boy was born, he received no response from any living being.
Not even from the parents who gave him life.
Love, hatred—none of it existed. His existence had no impact on anything.
The world has its own spirit, yet this child had been completely forgotten by the laws of nature. He wouldn’t grow up, wouldn’t age, and wouldn’t form any connections with others.
Fang Jianguo held a cigarette between his lips, silent.
“There’s no way to fix this?”
“There is a way,” the friend said. “But I suggest you don’t raise him.”
Fang Jianguo frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Send him back to where he came from.”
The friend spoke casually. “Think about it. The world has shown him nothing but malice—do you really think he’ll like it here? Do you think he even can? What if he turns against the world and hurts people?”
Without hesitation, Fang Jianguo rejected the idea. “No. What else?”
The friend chuckled. “I knew you’d say that.”
After a long pause, he finally spoke again.
“It’s not impossible.” He took the cigarette Fang Jianguo handed him and took a deep drag. “I don’t know if it will work, but we can try.”
He had done a divination last night. The child was not destined to die—there would be a turning point.
“But you won’t be the one to walk with him to the end,” the friend continued. “Lin Shuheng won’t be either. He has his own fate… Oh, and one more thing.”
Fang Jianguo raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”
“If he ever brings home any stray cats or dogs,” the friend said, “don’t stop him. Just help him take care of them.”
Fang Jianguo found the advice strange and hard to make sense of, but he trusted these things, so he still agreed. “Alright.”
Fang Huai sat quietly by the stove, listening to their conversation.
No one here could see him. It was as if he had accidentally wandered into this world—watching them go through spring, summer, autumn, and winter, yet never truly affecting them.
He wondered how his real self was doing.
He had been an observer in this world for four years now, but in reality, not much time had passed. Apart from a few key moments, time seemed to speed by.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel sad.
He watched as Lin Shuheng, in that small basement, gripped a calligraphy brush and wrote two characters. He watched as Lin Shuheng sat on his bed, head bowed, carefully stitching a small cloth tiger, one stitch at a time.
He watched as Lin Shuheng took his own life with a bullet.
Then, he saw Fang Jianguo.
Fang Jianguo braved the pouring rain to rush into town and make one last phone call to Lin Shuheng. The only response was a half-minute-long busy tone.
Fang Jianguo wiped the water off his face, didn’t try calling again, and went home.
A young Fang Huai stood in the courtyard, clutching a small wooden horse, lost and bewildered.
Fang Jianguo said to him, “I haven’t even cried. What are you crying for?”
The ginkgo leaves in the yard had turned yellow.
Many years passed. Because of Fang Huai’s unusual condition, Fang Jianguo kept their lives hidden, moving from one town to another. They went to Tianjin, but eventually, they returned to Sichuan.
More than a decade later, Fang Huai finally grew a little. His intelligence and appearance developed in sync, and he was finally ready to attend school—what was now called elementary school.
But the town’s school wouldn’t accept him.
Neither would the village school. Fang Jianguo had to support the two of them, and Fang Huai was at the age where children were most troublesome. He was overwhelmed.
Three months later, as winter set in, adults from the village suddenly came knocking.
They said Fang Huai had beaten up their child—so badly that the boy’s nose was bleeding.
Fang Jianguo was stunned when he heard this. He threw on a coat, stepped into the snow, and rushed out.
When he arrived, he saw Fang Huai—small and covered in mud from head to toe—being held back as he desperately tried to charge forward and keep fighting.
Meanwhile, the group of boys he had fought took the chance to kick him several times while he was restrained.
“Bastard,” they spat at Fang Huai. “Your old man’s a pervert. He likes men. He’s disgusting.”
Fang Huai’s eyes turned red, like a furious little dog. Even the adults could barely hold him back.
The rumors had started when someone visited Fang Jianguo’s home and saw an old photograph in his drawer—a picture of him with Lin Shuheng. Added to the fact that Fang Jianguo had never married, gossip had spread quickly. And it wasn’t exactly an era known for open-mindedness.
Fang Jianguo was speechless.
The next day, Fang Huai fell seriously ill. His fever wouldn’t break, and in his delirium, he forgot many things. Fang Jianguo, frantic and desperate, sought out his old friend once again.
When he returned, he took Fang Huai and moved deep into the mountains. He built a house, fenced off a yard, and cut ties with the village.
A month later, Fang Huai finally recovered.
With no school to attend, Fang Jianguo had no choice but to teach him himself.
This had both advantages and disadvantages. The good part was that Fang Huai was no longer in danger. The bad part was that his growth slowed once again.
By the time Fang Jianguo’s hair turned white, and he was diagnosed with diabetes, liver cirrhosis, osteoporosis, and a slew of other illnesses, Fang Huai still hadn’t fully grown up. But Fang Jianguo had grown old ahead of him.
It was then that Fang Jianguo finally realized a serious problem—when he died, what would happen to this kid?
In the last eleven years of his life, Fang Huai started bringing home animals. First, he picked up a fish. Then, on a rainy day, he brought back a dog. Later, he found a small bird.
His friend’s old warning had finally come true.
One summer night, Fang Jianguo woke in the middle of the night, threw on a coat, and limped over to the glass fish tank. He tapped the glass with his cane and said, “Can you understand me?”
Fang Huai: “……”
Fang Huai had been an observer for decades, but in that instant, he suddenly realized something.
He looked at the fish.
Then, he looked at himself—still a little boy, fast asleep.
Oh my god.
But what shocked him went far beyond this.
A soft, almost imperceptible glow enveloped the small wooden house. The summer breeze came to a standstill, and even a ginkgo leaf that had been falling froze midair.
The fish in the glass tank vanished without a trace.
Following Fang Jianguo’s gaze, Fang Huai looked outside.
Beneath the ginkgo tree stood a man.
He wore flowing robes with wide sleeves, his long hair cascading down, and his golden, slit-pupiled eyes gleamed.
With his sleeves gathered in front of him, his features were cold and strikingly beautiful. His skin had a jade-like translucence. He gave Fang Jianguo a slight bow.
“……”
Fang Huai: “???”
His face went blank.
This was far too much information for him to process all at once.
No matter what, he never expected to see Ye Yuyuan here.
Ye Yuyuan wasn’t supposed to appear in his memories at all. They had first met when Fang Huai was eighteen—outside a convenience store.
A wave of mixed emotions surged in Fang Huai’s heart.
Then, he made another discovery—his dog and his bird weren’t human either.
As for what happened after that, Fang Huai could more or less remember.
Two years later, he fell ill again. But by then, his old friend had already passed away. With no other options, Fang Jianguo took Fang Huai and left their homeland, traveling to the country with the most advanced medical technology at the time. Eventually, they settled there, far from human civilization.
The situation had been dire, and they hadn’t been able to bring their pets along. They all scattered.
Fang Huai knew that Ye Yuyuan and Feng Lang had searched for him, but they never found anything.
After all, he was a lifeform existing outside the laws of the world. If he wanted to survive in good health, he had to keep his ties to the world as faint as possible.
But that was never a long-term solution.
Fang Jianguo could only protect him for seven more years. After that, the road ahead would be Fang Huai’s to walk alone.
Over the years, Fang Jianguo had searched for answers about Fang Huai’s origins—because no human is truly rootless.
In the end, he managed to uncover a little.
Fang Huai’s father was not human, and his mother, pregnant out of wedlock, was shunned by society. Before he was even born, Fang Huai had been steeped in malice and discrimination, barely surviving multiple times.
Lin Shuheng’s jade pendant had been left to Fang Jianguo, who later gave it to Fang Huai.
A kind person accumulates blessings. That jade pendant had been prayed for over eight lifetimes.
Whether it could truly protect this child and shield him from the storm, no one knew.
At last, the long dream reached its conclusion.
All the colors of the world faded, time spun forward—thousands of seasons passing in the blink of an eye.
And in the end, the only thing that remained before Fang Huai’s eyes—
Was that same ginkgo tree.
Lin Shuheng sat beneath the dappled summer sunlight, holding a fountain pen, writing a letter to Fang Huai many years into the future.
“The world we live in is far from perfect,” he wrote slowly, carefully choosing words that would be easy to understand—simplified characters hadn’t yet been fully adopted. “It has many flaws—discrimination, malice, war, famine.”
“You might struggle to distinguish right from wrong. You might not know which path to take…”
Fang Jianguo leaned over to take a look, reading a line aloud before clicking his tongue. “Uncle Lin, this is so melodramatic.”
Lin Shuheng rubbed his ear sheepishly.
Fang Huai stood beside them, carefully studying the words in the notebook.
He read slowly, seriously. By the time Lin Shuheng and Fang Jianguo had walked away, the evening light had already begun to slant westward. The old-time breeze carried him forward through the years, one after another.
“The era you live in will be far better than mine or your grandfather’s.”
“Discrimination, malice, war—do not fear them.”
“There is no need to be afraid of darkness, but you must become the light.”
The wind flipped the pages of the book before slowly closing it again. The paper had yellowed, time had flowed on, and the dream settled into a peaceful sweetness.
Those were Lin Shuheng’s words to him—do not fear the darkness, but you must become the light.
Fang Huai closed his eyes.
*
Early September.
The 101st Academy Awards were held as scheduled.
This year was an exceptional one in many ways—changes in various rules, among other things.
But as always, the Oscars remained the center of attention. Media outlets had arrived on-site a week in advance, as had the nominated actors, each putting immense effort into their red-carpet looks. Los Angeles traffic had been gridlocked for half a month—though, to be fair, it was always bad.
“Which suit do you think looks best?” A stylist stood in front of a row of tuxedos, struggling to decide. “Should we go for something bold?”
Fang Huai had arrived very late.
The awards ceremony was tomorrow, and he had only just landed this afternoon, with no styling plans in place.
The rest of The Nameless Melody cast had been here for days.
His Orlando summer campaign had made quite a splash, and its impact continued to ripple outward—introducing Fang Huai’s potential to the world and officially opening doors to the international market.
However, Fang Huai had yet to take on any new endorsements. Many brands—both domestic and international—had expressed interest in him, but he had declined them all for “personal reasons.” Naturally, this led to backlash, with some accusing him of inflating his own worth and pretending to be above it all.
At his level, any decision was subject to over-interpretation, but Fang Huai was used to it.
Speaking of Orlando, there had been a small incident.
After releasing the full set of campaign photos, Orlando’s official account posted another image in the middle of the night—only to delete it seconds later.
Still, some sharp-eyed netizens managed to screenshot it.
In the photo, a young man in a suit sat dozing off, his eyes glassy with drowsiness. Behind him, a coldly handsome man was gently adjusting the collar at the nape of his neck, bathed in the soft light of early June.
It wasn’t a particularly scandalous image, but the atmosphere of it—subtle yet heart-stirring—made it impossible to ignore.
For unknown reasons, the photo was deleted almost immediately, and the discussion around it was clearly suppressed before it could gain traction.
Regardless, after Orlando, offers poured in from all over the world.
*
Fang Huai sat in his chair, still jet-lagged. Though it was late at night, he was wide awake.
While messaging his boyfriend, he casually responded to the stylist:
“The starry blue one. He picked it for me.”
Stylist: “……” Okay then.
This outfit held special meaning for Fang Huai.
It was the very first gift Ye Yuyuan had given him—back when they weren’t even that close.
Fang Huai’s participation in the Oscars had been a topic of heated debate in China from the very beginning.
This year, unfortunately, had been particularly bleak for Chinese cinema on the international stage. Apart from Fang Huai, the only other nominee was a well-known Chinese actress up for Best Supporting Actress—though she was mostly seen as a long shot.
Any news remotely related to the Oscars inevitably involved Fang Huai.
They discussed his romantic history, dug into his so-called “black past,” and even compared his chances of winning an Oscar to the likelihood of discovering a second natural satellite orbiting Earth.
Most people assumed he was just there for the ride.
After all, for as long as anyone could remember, Chinese filmmakers had never had much luck at the Oscars—even getting nominated was a rarity.
But that didn’t stop marketing accounts from circulating photos of Fang Huai arriving in Los Angeles just a day before the ceremony, calling him unprofessional and disrespectful.
A ten-hour flight was exhausting. Fang Huai didn’t do much after arriving—just said goodnight to Ye Yuyuan before heading to bed.
He was a little nervous, and not just because of the Oscars.
*
The next day.
Fang Huai was still jet-lagged. He had barely slept, tossing and turning all night. When someone finally pulled him out of bed, he was still half-asleep.
His phone screen was open to a news page.
Fang Huai had been closely following the progress of China’s same-sex marriage legalization bill. But even after three months, the review process had yet to formally begin.
“Let’s take a look at the latest update,” a news reporter announced. “For the fourth time, a civil organization has [petitioned]. Today, the head of the organization will submit an official request for the review process to begin—”
Fang Huai rubbed his temples.
“Nervous?” The stylist, working on his base makeup, smiled. “Have you thought about what you’ll say if you win?”
Fang Huai: “……”
He curled his fingers and rubbed his ear. Yeah, he’d thought about it.
The usual—thanking the director and the jury. And…
Shi Feiran, sitting beside him, instinctively clenched his hands and shot Fang Huai a wary look.
With his styling complete, there were two hours left until the ceremony.
Fang Huai got into a car heading for Hollywood. If traffic was smooth, he’d arrive with about half an hour to spare before the red carpet started.
By now, countless journalists—both domestic and international—were already waiting outside. As soon as he stepped out, they swarmed forward.
“Mr. Fang, can we get an interview?” one reporter asked.
Shi Feiran actually didn’t want him to answer, but Fang Huai, always good-natured, simply nodded.
“The awards ceremony is in two hours. Are you nervous?” asked a sharp and professional female reporter.
“Yes, I am,” Fang Huai replied with a small smile.
A few more standard questions followed. But then, as if under someone’s instruction, the female reporter suddenly became aggressive.
“What are your views on homosexuality? Recently, intimate photos of you with another man have been circulating online. Pardon my bluntness, but what is your sexual orientation?”
Shi Feiran immediately stepped in. “Sorry, no comment. We’re running late. Please step aside.”
This was, of course, the kind of question that should be avoided at all costs. In China, the CDC still classified homosexuality as a gender identity disorder, but internationally, the mindset had long since shifted. No matter how Fang Huai answered—yes or no—he would offend someone.
But the press was relentless. Flashbulbs kept going off, microphones were pushed toward him.
“Mr. Fang, please answer the question.”
“Mr. Fang, have you been in a long-term inappropriate relationship with a male superior?”
“Mr. Fang—”
Foreign journalists watched, stunned.
To them, Fang Huai was just a kid—barely twenty. He stood there in his perfectly tailored suit, calm and composed, his long eyelashes casting shadows over his eyes, which were a pale, clear color.
Then, after a moment, he lifted his gaze, looked directly at a certain reporter, and said—
“Yes.”
The reporter blinked. “Excuse me?”
Fang Huai smoothed a hand over the sapphire cuff of his sleeve. Through his pocket, his fingers brushed against a ring.
Then, carefully, word by word, he said—
“I am gay.”
“My partner is a man.”
“And I am going to propose to him.”
“Is there a problem?”
The media fell silent.
It was like boiling water at its peak—just one more degree and it would explode.
The female reporter who had first questioned him stared in disbelief.
“Do you… have anything else to say?”
Fang Huai shrugged and took two steps toward his car. Then, as if remembering something, he turned back and added—
“Oh, actually, I do have a favor to ask.”
The reporters: “???”
They thought he was about to backtrack—maybe find a way to soften what he’d just admitted. Did he not care about his career back in China?
Behind him, Los Angeles was alive—traffic, city lights, people going about their lives.
He looked a little shy, hesitated for a second, then smiled and said—
“Don’t broadcast the proposal part. I want it to be a surprise for him.”
The reporters: “……”
The boiling water finally overflowed—the lid blew off—and the whole world erupted.
